Students of the Impossible
by Rill of Fantasia
Summary: A series, with each chapter featuring one character and the Mirror of Erised. Currently includes McGonagall, Moaning Myrtle, Hagrid, and more. New: A father contemplates his lost son.
1. Her Students

_Harry Potter_ and all associated characters and concepts belong to J.K. Rowling.

Minerva McGonagall was an intelligent woman. She was only too aware of the dangers poised by the Mirror of Erised. She therefore avoided it scrupulously.

Besides, she knew what she would see. Her students.

She would watch James Potter cheer on his oldest child, proud that Harry is a better Quidditch player than he ever was. Lily, level-headed as always, would privately wish that Harry (and James) would pay attention to more serious matters.

Peter Pettigrew and Sirius Black laugh at what a responsible father James has become.

Ronald Weasley would complain that his mother worries too much. "Honestly, it's only Quidditch! So what if I might get my arm broken? Sometimes I wonder what she would do if I were in real danger."

Ginny Weasley complains that nothing ever happens to her.

Hermione Granger wishes her knowledge could be put to a practical test. "Professor, I was wondering if I could talk to you. If it wouldn't be too much trouble, I'd like you to give me a more challenging test. I mean, I _know_ I can get this right in class, but I never have the chance to see if I can do a spell when it really matters."

Neville Longbottom would happily inform his housemates that his grandmother has invited him to visit her for the holidays. Asked if he doesn't want to see his parents, Neville replies "Oh, Mum and Dad are alright. It's just that they're awfully strict. Gram lets me do whatever I want. Says that she had enough trouble raising Dad, she ought to be able to let me run around a bit."

Professor Remus Lupin informs his students that, since the next Monday is a full moon, he will not be teaching class. His students are glad for the day off and remark how lucky it is to have a werewolf for a professor.

A group of third-year students confronts their first boggart. Their greatest fears, it seems, are older siblings and Hogwarts professors.

Her greatest fear would be the Weasley twins causing Gryffindor to lose the House Cup.

She would see herself watch three students sneaking about the castle at night. Her mirror-self almost stops them, but then lets them go. They are safe enough. No harm can come to her students.

So Minerva McGonagall never looks in the Mirror. It is dangerous. Especially to those who desire the impossible.

If you enjoyed this story, please review. If you did not enjoy this story, please review. Positive feedback makes me want to write more. Negative feedback makes me a better writer. So either way, don't hold back.


	2. Freedom and or Defeat

**The _Harry Potter_ series, Remus Lupin, and the Mirror of Erised all belong to J. K. Rowling.**

Thanks to everyone who reviewed "Students of the Impossible." This piece is the result of your encouragement. And no, I didn't write both of these in two days. I actually wrote "Impossible" three weeks ago. I just didn't have access to my computer again until now.

He could have what the mirror offered him. There was nothing to stop him. Except for the other image in the mirror.

Remus Lupin had looked into the Mirror of Erised two times in his life. The first time was shortly after he came to Hogwarts as a student. The second was shortly after he came to Hogwarts as a professor. Both times he saw the same image.

There were two images, two fighting images. Two freedoms. The one he had seen first was of himself, fearless, defiant of all who would challenge him. He had no need to skulk in an office or a shack. He was free Free to run, free to live his own life, free beneath the moon. As a werewolf. None could stand before him, neither those who scorned his weak human form nor those who valued him only for that weakness. He was the wild.

But there was another. There was one he could not conquer. Even when the wolf was lord of the moors, there was one who had no fear. It was no hero, no noble stag, loyal dog, or even cunning rat. A small forlorn figure in tattered robes walked within the dreamscape of the mirror. He was no hero, he could not defeat the wolf. And yet neither could the wolf defeat him.

Remus Lupin was everything he wished to be. He had the power to defy all and to defeat all. Except himself.

If you enjoyed this story, please review. If you did not enjoy this story, please review. Positive feedback makes me want to write more. Negative feedback makes me a better writer. So either way, don't hold back.


	3. Thirteen, Dead, and Immortal

**_Harry Potter_ and all associated characters and concepts belong to J.K. Rowling.**

She knew right away that she was dead. Later, someone would tell her—it might have been the Fat Friar—that some ghosts took weeks or even months to accept being dead. That had surprised her. Se didn't think it was very different from being alive. She couldn't see her face in mirrors anymore, but that was no loss. She had never been pretty.

At first they just called her Myrtle, or more often, Myrtle's ghost. They spoke about her in hushed whispers, perhaps not wanting to be reminded that Hogwarts was not safe.

The Head Girl came to see her once. Myrtle wondered what it was about being dead that caused her tormentors to dessert her and her idols to suddenly take note of her.

"Myrtle, I'm… I'm sorry. I have failed. As Head Girl, I should have kept you safe. There was something wrong, I knew it, but I didn't do anything. I couldn't believe that the boy would ever really hurt anyone. People said things, but I wanted to protect him. Hogwarts was all he had. And he was young for his age, no matter his size. But I wish I'd spoken sooner. Even now I don't really believe it was him. But I should have done something. Myrtle, I'm sorry."

After the Head Girl left school, it was a long time before anybody nice would visit Myrtle again.

By her third deathday, Myrtle knew the worst part of being dead. She was still a second-year. Her classmates were sitting their O.W.L.s, but Myrtle would always be thirteen. She wished she could have been just a little older when she died. Maybe that was why the other ghosts weren't so unhappy. They didn't have to be thirteen forever.

By her tenth deathday, all the students she had known were long gone. The new students called her Moaning Myrtle now. She had never been alive to them. That was when she grew to hate being dead. They didn't care, not about her, not about poor Myrtle. What did it matter to them if she was dead? All they cared about was trying to flush her down her toilet. Sometimes they'd throw things, too.

By her thirteenth deathday, Myrtle had been dead for as long as she had been alive. She wondered what it would be like to be twenty-six, or even sixteen. She thought that she wouldn't mind dying again if only she got to live a little more first. Dying wasn't really so bad. Being dead was the bad part. Being dead, and seeing other people alive, and older. She was still thirteen. But she was older now than the prefects and even the new Head Girl. Myrtle wondered what she would have been like if she were alive. But that made her think that maybe she was better off dead. At least people left her alone now. Mostly.

There was a new professor now. Myrtle saw her sometimes. She looked like someone who was always very careful of her students. She reminded Myrtle of the old Head Girl, the nice one who had come to visit her. But she looked different. She didn't smile.

Myrtle could remember from when she was alive that sometimes, people looked different as they got older. Maybe the new professor was the Head Girl. Myrtle would have liked to ask her, but she was afraid that if she were someone else, the professor might just tell her to go away. Besides, even if she were the old Head Girl, she might not remember what Myrtle looked like. Myrtle didn't. Why should anyone else?

More years passed. There was a new girl at Hogwarts. She was nice. Myrtle liked her because they both had flower names. Myrtle met her when the girl escaped into the bathroom from a Nasty Boy who wouldn't leave her alone. Myrtle knew all about mean boys, like the one who made the Ministry tell her she had to stay in the bathroom. The Nice Girl told Myrtle that she was sure Myrtle would have made a very good witch. The girl became Myrtle's friend. Myrtle couldn't remember the last time she had had a friend. She could barely remember the time before she was a ghost. She'd stopped counting her deathdays long ago.

But then the Nice Girl got older. She started to think boys were nice. Myrtle even heard her say once that maybe the Nasty Boy wasn't so bad after all. The nice girl became Head Girl, like that other girl from long ago. Myrtle wondered for the first time in years if the young professor was the old Head Girl. But the young professor wasn't young anymore. She looked more like the other professors.

Myrtle wondered if she were any older. Maybe ghosts did age, but very very slowly. But she was afraid to ask the other ghosts. They were so much older than she was. They wouldn't listen to a little ghost like her. She wished she could know. But she couldn't even feel to see if her hair had grown any—her hand passed right through where her hair should have been. It would be nice to be even a little older.

The nice girl left. Myrtle heard the other ghosts say that she married the nasty boy. Then the Nice Girl, and the Nasty Boy, died. Part of Myrtle remembered that when people die, you were supposed to be sad. But that was a long time ago. The nice girl had grown up and left her, just like everyone else, just like her classmates, just the like the old Head Girl. Why did it matter if they died? They all left Myrtle. Because Myrtle wasn't anyone. She was just Moaning Myrtle. She wondered if she'd ever had another name. If she'd ever been someone else. If she'd ever been pretty like the Nice Girl. If she'd ever been someone.

Myrtle didn't always stay in her toilet. Sometimes she left. She liked to wander the empty parts of the castle. Maybe someone else would die. Maybe there would be another ghost like her, someone who wouldn't grow up and leave her. But she couldn't find any other ghosts like her. She did find lots of interesting things, like doors that only opened when you didn't need to get through and portraits that were only there when know one was looking. One day she found a mirror. She remembered mirrors. Her mother had had one. Myrtle used to look at it, in the time before. This one had something written above it. It said "Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi." Myrtle wondered what that meant. Then she looked at the mirror. If she weren't dead, she would have died of shock. She could see herself. She was real.

If you enjoyed this story, please review. If you did not enjoy this story, please review. Positive feedback makes me want to write more. Negative feedback makes me a better writer. So either way, don't hold back.


	4. All Creatures Great and Small

**_Harry Potter_ and all associated characters and concepts belong to J.K. Rowling.**

_Thanks to everyone who's reviewed. This one's for **Quadrantje, **who requested a Hagrid mirror fic. Speaking of which, I'm always glad for ideas. If you have a character you'd particularly like to see, let me know. I won't make any promises, but I want to hear what you want. And now, on with the fic._

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I've looked inter it. Dangerous thing, that mirror. I wasn' goin' ter tell no one about it, but seein' as yeh asked….

I saw my littl' Norbert, all grown up! Fine, strappin' big dragon he's turned into. And he was curled right up with Aragog, an' they were trading stories just like old friends. They would've made great friends, they would have.

An' me Buckebeak—er, Witherwings—was there too. Fine lad Witherwings. Best hippogriff I ever had. He didn' do nothin' wrong, he was jus' being himself. Dumbledore understood.

An' Dumbledore was back too. Great man, Dumbledore. Always looks inter people, trusts 'em like, even when no on else does. Gives a second chance to them as needs it.

Me old dad was there too, shakin' hands wi' Dumbledore himself, as proud as you ever saw any man. I saw my dad, an' he was so proud of me, I tell yer, proud of me. He didn' have any reason as ter be ashamed of me. That's what hurts most, yeh know. Knowin' how I let me dad down, when he never did anything but good for me. I'd jus' like ter do somethin' to make him proud.

Those three? I saw them as they shoulda been. Saw Harry, with his parents, playing quidditch, without a care in the world. He didn' have nothin' to do, no one to save. Harry now, I've seen him do jus' about everythin', but he's never gotten ter be just a boy. Saw Ron, an' he didn' have ter worry abou' shabby robes or 'bout tryin' ter be like his brothers. Good boy, that Ron. It's not right that he always has to be Harry's friend or twins' brother and can't just be himself. An' its not right as he an' his brothers an' sister can never have nothin' new. Some people say the Weasley's aren' the best of families, but just one of them has got more good in 'em than the rest of them old families put together! And Hermione, she didn' have ter worry abou' no one callin' her names that I'm not gonna repeat. People treated her as they ought ter.

An' you know what else? They were all happy. Harry an' Ron an' Hermione an' Dumbledore and me dad an' even Norbert. Happier than most anyone ever sees 'em. That's what I want ter see. I want them happy as should be happy.

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**If you enjoyed this story, please review. If you did not enjoy this story, please review. Positive feedback makes me want to write more. Negative feedback makes me a better writer. So either way, don't hold back**.


	5. Favorite Son

**_Harry Potter_ and all associated characters and concepts belong to J.K. Rowling.**

Thanks to everyone who's reviewed. And no, I haven't abandoned this series. It got a little sidetracked by "Girl with Six Brothers," but it's still going. I have a thought for a new chapter. A thought that was an **idea** given to me by one of you lovely reviewers. So the moral is... Read. Review. Inspire me.

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What could they do to him? What could be done to a man who had lost all for which he would have once gladly given, for which he _had _gladly given, his soul? What could they do to him when they had taken everything? He had thought they could do nothing. Nothing that could add to the pain that was already his.

He was wrong.

They had found a way. They did not show him his fears, or the horrors of his past. They showed him what might have been. Every day, they would bring him to the Mirror, the accursed Mirror, the Mirror of what his heart desired.

And he would see his son. His dishonored son, his traitorous son, his disgraced son, his lost son. His loved son. In the Mirror he would see his son, and his son would stand beside him as his equal.

He could see his son who followed in his footsteps, the son who was his mother's pride and joy. But only in the mirror.

His son had left, betrayed them all, disgraced his family. His son and spat on all he had once believed, all he had once stood for.

But in the Mirror his son stood by him. In the Mirror son and father stood together, side by side, faced down their foes, and triumphed.

But that had not happened. His son had left them all, sold them out. And caused their downfall.

The father did not know if his son were alive or dead. Sometimes he did not know which he wanted. But the Mirror did not lie. In the Mirror, Draco was always alive.

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If you enjoyed this story, **please review**. If you did not enjoy this story, **please review**. Positive feedback **makes me want to write more**. Negative feedback **makes me a better writer**. So either way, **don't hold back**.


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